Piaculum Sacrificii
by Shadow Mage Evelyn
Summary: Hohenheim and Edward share a tough moment on a stormy night. ONESHOT. NONYAOI. Takes place immediately after Ed's transmutation in Episode 51. HAVE THE TISSUES HANDY! Please review!


**Piaculum Sacrificii**

The storm was raging something fierce that night, howling and carrying on outside the rattling windowpanes. Hohenheim watched the brilliant streaks of lightning as they spidered across the skies in breathtaking, awe-inspiring arcs. Shortly after came the heart pounding crack and boom of thunder that reverberated in his ears for several minutes, never quite leaving him until he was sure that it was just one continuous rumble rather than many littler rumbles. With a sigh, he tightened the belt of his robe and turned his attention back to the shivering, fever-racked form huddled in the mounds of blankets atop the only bed in the tiny apartment. Hohenheim himself sat in a rickety wooden chair, a lone, solitary candle serving as his only light. He'd only had a few moments to light the wick before the awful wailing had begun to escape from the frail, broken body and he'd found himself trying his best to hold the boy down as he'd thrashed and kicked, screaming endlessly for what seemed to be hours but had really only been minutes.

And then, without warning, the boy had fallen unconscious, going completely limp in Hohenheim's arms. Hohenheim had taken the opportunity to strip the boy of his sodden, rain-drenched pants—not that there had really been anything left of them in the first place, but he removed what was left, trying, in vain, not to stare in dull horror at the rounded stump of a left leg, and the nub of a right shoulder. It was clear to him that both limbs had been cleanly removed and sealed over, a morbid kindness that was almost like an afterthought. Hohenheim had never found such mercy in any of his journeys through that hellish limbo, but, he supposed as he stared at those blatant gaps in anatomy, this one, miniscule mercy would not be enough to erase the throb of sacrifice.

Now, the boy was quiet, only mumbling off and on to himself as he tossed and turned slightly in the ocean of blankets engulfing him. It had been hours since he'd gone to sleep, and he'd never really awoken yet since then, had only stirred occasionally to blink confusedly at Hohenheim with those barely-open, fever-laced owl eyes that were so eerily familiar and yet so absolutely foreign. Those eyes would close two seconds later, and he'd slip away again into the land of kaleidoscopic nightmares that swirled through his subconscious, causing him torturous agony and allowing his trembling body none of it's much needed rest. Hohenheim could only watch helplessly from the sidelines, wishing there was something he could do besides just sit there and bear witness to the torment.

But alas, he could do nothing but sit and watch the storm frenziedly pass, both beyond the glass and upon the mattress before him.

Eventually, both storms seemed to wear themselves out; the boy stopped his terribly shivering, and Nature ceased her relentless assault on Hohneheim's window. Around midnight, the tawny eyes struggled sluggishly open, and they seemed more focused then Hohenheim had previously seen them. They stared at the ceiling for awhile, recognizing its alien foreignness and slowly coming to a realization that, whatever they were seeing, it didn't look like anything back home. Hohenheim watched as the body suddenly comprehended that it wasn't in any bed it remembered, only to register its loss a millisecond later. The left hand flew to the right side, the horror slowly filling the eyes as the fingers brushed mutilated, puckered skin, but no arm. The eyes didn't want to believe it, and slowly they drifted over to confirm that, yes, indeed, the arm ceased to be. A second later, the hand ripped aside the blankets, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, the remnants of what used to be a fully functioning, perfectly healthy leg lifted and revealed it's shriveled, stumpy self.

Hohenheim only sat in silent testament to these events, waiting, waiting, until the boy's eyes flew to him, questioning, seeking some hope, begging for this to be a lie, to be some evil, deviant plot created by his imagination to confuse and expose him. He wanted Hohenheim to tell him that he would wake up from this nightmare in a few moments and would laugh it off later in the day with his fellows, wanted desperately to believe that this wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening, not to him. Hohenheim held that frightened, anxiety-ridden gaze for a long moment, trying to prepare it for the worst as he slowly shook his head and confirmed the boy's worst fears without any words.

The scream that followed would be forever burned into Hohenheim's memory, one strident enough to rival the shriek of the wind sailing through the empty, winter-slumbering tree branches, and full of so much bitterness and pain that Hohenheim's throat suddenly constricted out of empathy. It lasted for awhile until the boy's lungs gave out, and he drew in a great, shuddering breath that expelled an instant later into loud, agonized sobs that wracked his small body to the point of breaking. Hohenheim was only able to bear it for a minute before the torture proved to be too much and he rushed to the bed, perching on its edge near the pillows and stroking the boy's soft golden hair. He tried to utter soothing words, wanted to say something meaningful and encouraging, but all he could get out were cries of his own as he shared in the hurt. He collapsed under the weight of his own tears, curling around the boy's head and wrapping his arms around the frail, shaking body as best he could from his awkward position. The boy grabbed Hohenheim's right wrist as if it were his last lifeline and held on, both of them sobbing long past the end of the storm outside and long past the point where they could shed anymore tears.

Eventually, the boy cried himself to sleep, but Hohenheim did not. He stayed awake to act as a silent sentinel against the night, holding the boy and keeping him safe from any harm. His brain began racing desperately for a panacea, but the technology in this world was sorely lacking any of the advancements the boy would be used to. But Hohenheim would not surrender; he would build new limbs using the best machinery this world had to offer and would settle for nothing less. He would hold nothing back in his efforts to help this boy, would chase down each and every lead he came across until he found the best manufacturers, the best hospitals, and the best surgeons in the world to tend to this child.

Because this child wasn't just any child.

This child was his child.

And a father stops at nothing when it comes to his children, even if he hasn't seen them in nine years.

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Dear God! I thought that I had cried hard when I wrote "The Test"!! Writing this was _10 times_ worse!! I've never sobbed so hard when writing a story!!

I hope you really liked this story, and I hope you'll leave me a review.

BTW, the title is Latin for "the atonement of the sacrifice".

Please review!


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